Jungian Archetypes
by Melismata Maiden
Summary: A college roommate calls on a tenuous connection with Jonathan Crane for a favor. T for now.
1. Prologue

Jungian Archetypes

Prologue: Critical Reading

A/N A story for Blodeuedd, so she'll have something of mine to read.

Bernie was about to call in a favor from an old friend…Well, a former roommate. In point of fact, he and Jonathan Crane had scarcely spoken to one another during their shared year spent in the cramped, academic Gothic confines of their shared room at Hoyt College. But Bernie figured that sharing a rather unreliable toilet for a year created a bond that even a complete and utter lack of communication couldn't break. And Rita needed help. And besides, Crane'd helped him before…

Hoyt College Adler House, 10 years Ago

There was a note pinned to Bernie's door, with the thumbtack driven all the way into the wood. It read:_ Mr. Weibrecht, a young woman named Rita has called these premises looking for you seven times in the past week. A young woman named Candie has also called, also in search of you. Please return the calls of both of these people, so that they cease to disturb the peace of the room. Please also assure this Candie that I do not, nor do I think I ever will, 'want to party,' whether you are absent or not; my avowal to this affect appears to have been ineffective. Your prompt response will be greatly appreciated_. The note was signed 'Crane.' Bernie had simply crumpled the note up and thrown it onto the huge stack of papers which littered one corner of the room. That incomplete from Freshman Lit had finally caught up with him, and he was desperate to finish the damn thing.

A few days later, in their communal kitchen, Crane's illegal hot plate and kettle in the corner, Crane had caught up with him too. Cold blue eyes met Bernie's as he stumbled out of his room. "You have not responded to either of your callers." The statement demanded a response.

"It's been a helluva week."

"'We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion.'" Crane quoted. His eyes, still emotionless, waited for Bernie's response.

"I've got this old paper to finish before they'll let me graduate."

"What's the topic?"

"Shakespeare." Bernie's tone was disgusted.

"I see." Crane paused. "I have a proposition. I will help you with this Shakespeare paper, and in return, you will-"

"Pay you? Not likely." Bernie snorted.

Crane merely stared at him for a moment. "I was going to say, 'return your calls.'"

"You'd do that?"

"For peace and quiet."

And so Crane explained the vagaries of _The Winter's Tale_. After that, he had stood patiently by while he called Candie, to break it off and Rita to propose. Then he had disappeared back behind the locked door of his room, he and Bernie passed each other in the communal room and bathroom of their suite, but rarely spoke beyond pleasantries. Crane made no reference to his previous aid.

Remembering the story, Bernie stopped wavering with his hand poised over the telephone and picked it up. He dialed a Gotham City number, shuffling in his chair to the Muzak as he waited on hold. After about ten minutes, a surprisingly chipper voice chirped. "Arkham Assylum. How may I direct your call?"

A/N

So there it is, a Prologue. Thoughts, anyone?

Jonathan: I would never have helped that whiny little jerk.

Author: Not you. And who gave you permission to leave the root cellar?

Jonathan: I have a pass. Displays pass.

Author: Damn. I have to stop issuing those!

If anyone else has any thoughts, I'd be a happy camper. And there would be cookies, and even more cookies for anyone who picks on up the quote. (It's kinda a gimme, but you know.) Also I'm looking for a friendly Beta. Email me at if interested. That is all. Also I'm sorry to any Candies who may be reading. I just needed a name!


	2. The Proud Man's Contumely

Jungian Archetypes

Chapter 1: The Proud Man's Contumely

A/N Wow, another chapter started on the same night. This is a new adventure for me. Maybe I'll actually even update regularly. I know I'm breaking with comic book canon on some of this stuff, I'm off in my own little AU (just like in real life…). By the bye, this is not a slash fic as such (nor again is it an OFC pairing, despite the entrance of an OFC), sorry for any confusion the summary may be causing and I hope no one's too disappointed. I love reading slash, I just don't generally write it particularly well. Actually the characters, as is generally the case, seem to have their own ideas. Oh, and I borrowed the name Hoyt from a relatively obscure mystery novel called _The Serpent Under It._ The title of this chapter is, of course, from _Hamlet _the quote in the last one was Lear. (I loves me some Edmund!)It'sworth checking out. Anyway, hope you enjoy…

The intercom in Jonathan Crane's office buzzed. "Dr. Crane." The voice of Marie, his secretary, came scratchily through the intercom. "There's a Bernard Weibrecht on the phone for you."

He picked up his phone. The name rang a vague sort of bell, and besides, it would make a nice change from trying to draft his resignation letter.

"This is Jonathan Crane."

"Crane!" The voice on the other end was hearty. "This is Bernie. Bernie, from Hoyt, Bernie."

"Ah, yes." The memories came back at last. His roommate senior year. The jock. "So, what can I do for you Mr. Weibrecht?"

"I wish you'd call me Bernie." The man said, clearly halfheartedly. "Anyway, you remember my wife, Rita?"

Crane pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes."

"Well, she's doing administrative work in the lit department at Gotham U. Didn't you head up there after Hoyt?"

"Yes."

Finally, Weibrecht came to the point. "Well, she's been trying to arrange this course for a team teaching kind of thing. She's got someone to do the lit part, but the psych professor pulled, and she's getting really desperate."

"So you want me to recommend someone?"

"Actually, I was wondering…" Here, Weibrecht trailed off.

"I'm afraid I'm very busy." Crane did not sound particularly regretful.

"Y'see, it's just that they aren't sure that there's anyone else qualified…So I thought that you might…"

Despite the fact that Weibrecht had always seemed to be singularly unobservant, he had hit on Crane's one weak spot. The doctor couldn't stand the idea of someone misrepresenting his science, his art to the general public. Besides, he was in Rita's debt; it was she who had read and criticized his Honors Thesis. "Have her send me a reading list for the course, and I'll consider it."

"Hey, thanks!" Clearly expecting an outright refusal; Weibrecht would take what he could get.

"Goodbye." Jonathan brought the conversation to its conclusion.

"Bye."

Across town, Aemilia Stuart curled up in the huge armchair that dominated one corner of her office in Wayne Hall, home to Gotham U.'s literature department. Not only was being curled up in such a fashion comfortable, it was also the only possible way to sit. She had precious little room to maneuver in the cramped space. What she did have was three walls of shelves, a squashy chair for reading and student conferences, a hot plate and a kettle and a spare desk, which she had originally designated as a student workspace, though it was now piled with papers and books. Since Gotham University (thanks to an immense endowment from the Wayne family) was a research institution, she wrote as much as she taught; an occupation which took its toll on what was left of her available space. It also took its toll on her time, she reflected. This semester, she'd agreed to team teach the Jungian literary analysis course as well as her own Mystery Cycle Plays and the two intro lit classes the college generally managed to foist off on her. Currently, she was celebrating her last moments of freedom before term began by reading through an interminable MLA bulletin. Until Rita came in. The two women, about the same age, had become friends as the only people who were neither over seventy or graduate students in Gotham U.'s crusty-professor-filled English department, though Aemilia would never understand what had motivated a woman like Rita to marry her husband…Abruptly she realized that Rita had been speaking.

"…So what do you think?"

"Um…" Aemilia scanned Rita's face for clues. "Definitely?"

Her guess was rewarded by a beaming look from Rita. "Oh good. If he calls, I'll have him call you, and you two can plan things out."

"Who?"

"Crane, of course."

"And who's Crane?"

"Your co-instructor on the literary archetypes class. Ye Gods, girl! Did the MLA eat your brain again?"

Aemilia snickered. "They're the MLA aren't they? But I'm not sure about this whole team-teaching idea. I thought I was supposed to do the literary archetypes course on my own. After all, it is a subject I know just a little bit about."

"Now, now dear. We aren't trying to impugn your expertise. It's just that interdisciplinary seminar courses are very hot right now. Of course," here Rita's voice took on a tone of warning. "It is hard to get the psych department to send someone up here if they think someone is going to hit them."

"That wasn't my problem! I have nothing against psychology or psychiatry as disciplines, but that man was rude, smarmy, and patronizing!"

Rita just shook her head. "Well, you're the reason we have to farm out for our psych expert, so promise me you'll be nice to him."

Aemilia rolled her eyes. "As long as he's neither asinine nor stupid nor boring, we'll get on like a house on fire. Ashes ashes, we all fall down."

Rita, however, had left the room.

Jonathan looked at the neatly printed sheet before him. It was a broad syllabus, covering most of the spectrum of early and early modern English literature, then moving on to Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorne and even the Opie nursery rhymes. Then he glanced at the course description and smirked.

He picked up the phone and dialed the Gotham U. English department. After a couple of transfers from line to line, he finally got a graduate student who claimed she could help him.

"We'll see. You are in some way responsible for this course?"

"I work for Dr. Stuart, so I typed up the list, yeah."

"Well, it seems to be a well-selected and well-balanced syllabus. If it weren't for the fact that a graduate student has no idea how to spell so elementary a word as 'mimesis,' I would have no compunction about assuming that the standards at Gotham University are a high as ever. As it is…well, please connect me to your employer."

He heard a gasp and glanced at his watch, smiling to himself. Not even three in the afternoon yet. Then he tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk until a voice on the other end of the line said, flatly, "You made my graduate student cry."

"Mimesis has never been spelled with three 'i's."

There was a pause. "Reduce your own underlings to gasps and sobs. Mine has work to do."

"We should discuss the course."

"You've seen the reading list, presumably you are familiar with the tenets of Jungian analysis. Well, prepare some, and be prepared to take questions. It tends to be a talkative seminar group."

"You misunderstand Doctor. I'm perfectly confident about my role. I simply need to assure myself of certain particulars. It would be wise to agree, I'd hate to have to call the dean and tell him that you're antagonizing yet another psychoanalyst."

"Fine. Here. Tonight. Nine." The phone slammed back into the cradle. Taking petty revenge on the dean's office, Aemilia ripped a department meeting reminder into shreds and wished she could get out of the meeting as easily. Then she took a very old book from its place of obscurity on the shelves and stared at it. After a moment, she set it on her desk. Just in case.

AN: Again, sorry if this seems like its going in too many directions. Nathaniel Hawthorne appears to be rubbing off on me. My thanks to my wonderful reviewers, who are encouraging me to let this fic take me where it wants, and to my marvelous beta, Evil Demandred, whose own diabolically amusing work I highly recommend. Best,

MM.


	3. The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

Jungian Archetypes

Chapter 2: The Night has a Thousand Eyes

A/N: Exams and extra credit having been concluded (more or less successfully), I'm all yours once again…so here we go. I promise the crazy dreams will come soon, but after finishing this section, I decided it would be more effective to split them. Also, I kind of ran out of energy. Reviewer shoutouts to follow at long last.

Crane was, as Aemilia had imagined he'd be, precisely on time. Which, as she had reached her decision, was just as well. He arrived without fuss and draped his coat over her squishy chair. Then he took the straight backed chair from her research desk, after removing her stack of unread journals. "Dr. Stuart."

"Dr. Crane."

"It's an extensive syllabus." Jonathan proffered the barest hint of a smile.

"Yes, well, literature is full of archetypal characters. So-"

"What made you pick Jungian analysis instead of Freudian analysis?"

"Jung was better read in the early Western tradition, and he always struck me as less dogmatic." She smiled. "But I didn't choose the course topic. I just agreed to teach it. Now, we should cover some of the details. I take it you've looked over the requirements. We ask them for a paper a month; I assume you'll want to pick some of the topics, and I was thinking we'd just divide up the grading, so I'd grade mine and you grade yours."

Crane seemed to consider the issue for a moment. Then, he said, "No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We'll both grade each paper and take the average of the two grades."

Aemilia frowned. "That's a little irregular."

Crane did smile then, using what Aemilia supposed he thought was his charm. "I'm aware of that, but surely, someone who's willing to go up against the dean's office so often will be equally willing to do something a trifle unusual. After all, surely you can manage the work."

That stung. "Fine. As long as you think _you're_ up for it, I'm game. I'm supposed to collect some information from you for the University." She passed him a clipboard, with a healthy pile of forms.

"Aemilia is an unusual name."

"I was named for the Elizabethan poet Aemilia Lanier; my parents were some of the few Shakespearians who believed that she must have been the Dark Lady." She paused for a moment. "You're doing some interesting work on the role of the collective unconscious in individual phobias. I wouldn't have expected someone so interested in fear to be such a Jungian."

Crane smiled secretively. "Jung has his uses."

She smiled back and suddenly said, "Shadow or self?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just pick one."

"Shadow."

"Animus or anima?"

He looked at her askance for a moment. "Anima."

She smiled. "Well, you never know. There are some psychoanalysts who would have you believe that men and women both have both animus _and _anima."

"Really?" Crane's expression was entirely too bland.

"As I'm sure you know." Aemilia added. "Locke or Hobbes?"

"Hobbes."

"Really? Interesting. Sartre or Camus?"

"Sartre." Crane raised his eyebrows. "What's next, _Either_ or _Or_? One could advance a decent argument for either one as Kirkegaard's seminal work, although as an English major, I'd imagine you prefer _Either_."

Aemilia grinned. "Actually," she said airily, "I was working my way up to 'Boxers or briefs?' but I suppose I should save that until at least our second or third meeting."

"Probably. Anyway, I should probably get back to the asylum. I'll see you next Tuesday."

"Right. See you then." She might have unbent a little, but Aemilia still found a way to slip the battered book from her desk into Crane's briefcase as she handed him his coat and bag.

"Thank you." Jonathan made his way to the door, and waited until Aemilia returned her attention to her manuscript.

"Boxers."

She looked up. "Excuse me?"

"Boxers. Always. You asked." And with that, he was gone.

Aemilia grinned to herself. After a moment she picked up the phone and dialed slowly.

"Lanier." She said in response to a question. "'The night has a thousand eyes, the day has but one.'…Yes, I put it into his briefcase…yes, I think he's ready…Anima…Yes, anima before shadow, certainly before self." She smiled. "No, I'll take direct action on this one….Mmmhmmm it should be fun….I know. Goodbye."

She hung up and stared at the phone for a long moment before she quietly packed her bags, turned out her light, locked the office and left the building.

That night Crane dreamed.

A/N: Sorry, I know that's shorter than the last one, but it seemed like the right place to end, and I promise the next chapter will be up soon. All right, to my individual reviewers (whom I adore!):

Blodeuedd: I hope that my influences continue to amuse you. Thanks for your kind words. Look for a bit of Aemilia (Lanier) poetry later on. I think (I hope) you'll like.

Suddenwhim: I'm delighted that you like the title. I'm a huge Jung fan, so when Crane made that comment, I was ready to hug him.

Jonathan: I'm glad you didn't; it would have threatened our patient – analyst relationship. Shall we continue our session?

Author: Actually, since this session is a figment of my imagination and you are currently my animus, an attraction between the animus and self is perfectly healthy. It means that my various energies and strengths will come together to get me where I need to go, so…

Jonathan: looks around wildlyI'm sorry, our time is up. Shoves author out of office.

Nothing and Nowhere: Glad you love it. Am updating at last.

Evil Demandred: Simply sends out waves of love to favorite _Batman Begins_ beta.


	4. Anima or a Damsel with a Dulcimer

Jungian Archetypes

Chapter Four: Anima or A Damsel With a Dulcimer

A/N: OK, here's where it gets spooky…

That night Crane dreamed. This was not to say that Jonathan Crane didn't usually dream, but this dream was different. Linear. _Waking_.

After he left Gotham U.'s hallowed halls, he took the train back to the Narrows, and settled himself in at his desk to finish the resignation letter he'd started that afternoon.

_Dear Dr. Adler,_

I must regretfully tender my resignation from Arkham Asylum. Unfortunately, I feel that my own attitudes and approach to psychotherapy is too different for me to continue on here.

Jonathan Crane.

He read over the letter and nodded to himself in satisfaction. Then he pressed the print button and waited as the printer spat out his brief missive. Another man might have leaned back in his chair. Naturally, Crane permitted himself no such luxury, but there was a ghost of a smile on his face as he lifted the paper from the printer tray. He tucked it carefully into his briefcase before he locked his office and left for the night.

Next came the familiar train ride over the bridge and away from the narrows. A scraggly looking kid glanced over at Crane, eyeing his suit and briefcase. Crane simply stared unblinkingly back at him as he would a reticent patient. The wannabe street-tough looked away uncomfortably after a moment. Though conventional wisdom taught that it was unwise to make eye contact with strangers on the train, Crane enjoyed it.

At last he was back at his apartment, a spare, almost ascetic safe-haven. Though the apartment and its contents were well-built, they were stark and built along classical lines. Not for Crane the Yuppie pretensions of Mission furniture or the breathy futurism of Eames's Molded Plywood Division.

In typically methodical fashion, Crane made up some risotto and left it to stew in the pressure cooker while he finished going over some paperwork. Finally, he dished up the risotto, poured himself a glass of Chianti, and ate, still reading through his papers. He paused only to wash his dishes and put them in the dish rack; the, being Crane, he worked for another several hours. At exactly ten thirty, he set his briefcase in chair beside his bed, hung the suit and tie he planned to wear on his closet door and got ready for bed. He read a few pages of Rimbaud and then turned out the light. He fell quickly into sleep.

There was a masked woman sitting in his chair right next to his bed, holding his briefcase. "Hello, Jonathan."

"Who are you?" He asked thickly.

She laughed softly. "I'm you, or rather, the feminine part of you."

"You're my anima."

"Making good use of that psych degree, I see." The voice was lightly mocking.

"Why am I dreaming this now?" The question was rhetorical, Crane was now studying the woman like a specimen.

"I thought it was time we talked." Her voice turned caressing. "It's been awhile."

"So talk." He knew that voice.

"I'm worried."

"You mean I'm worried."

"Well yes," the voice was amused. "That too. Crane when was the last time you dreamed about me?"

"Tonight, as a matter of fact." He smirked.

"Your Shadow is taking over your psyche. You barely have time for the rest of your mind. That isn't healthy Crane."

"Maybe not for you."

"And not for you either, idiot. Have you forgotten what we learned from Jung? You need me in your brain as much as I need to be there."

"Is this because I haven't been involved with anyone lately?" Crane was feeling a bit unnerved. His subconscious generally wasn't this direct.

"I'm from your _un_conscious, you idiot, and your recent failure in relationships is just the symptom, not the problem. You've gotten monomanic, and your obsession has made you dangerous. To yourself." She added as Crane felt smug. "The other aspects of your unconscious will be joining me in warning you."

"And what if I ignore the warning?"

"Then we make our voices known." The smile under the half-mask was cruel, mocking. "C.mon, Crane, you know what happens to people who hear voices. Well, multiple voices. Expect your next visitor tomorrow night. In the meantime…" She leaned suddenly over the bed and kissed him slowly, drawing the contact out. "That should remind you what I'm here for." Even as he moved, she pulled out of his reach and then settled his blankets around him like a mother. Go to sleep now Jonathan." She sank back into the chair and smiled at him. "I'll sing you to sleep if you like." Now, she spoke with his mother's crooning voice. And then she sang, almost under her breath, "The storming wind cut through to my skin but she cut through to my blood."

Dimly, Crane recognized the song as one his mother used to sing to him on the rare nights when she was not the victim of his father's attentions. Feeling unbearably exhausted, he rolled over and into dreamless sleep at last.

The dull drone of his alarm woke him at six the next morning. He felt unusually tired as he pulled himself out of bed, and then, abruptly, he remembered his dream. As he showered, shaved and dressed, he began to dismiss it. The Jungian analysis class was leading him to dream strange things.

Then he made his bed. As he moved his pillows, he realized that he would have to reconsider his hypothesis.

Sitting on top of his crisp white sheets, in stark relief, was a black half-mask.

AN: Sorry this took so long! Life has been going insane. It was tech week on my play, and then I had two huge papers to write, and to top it all off, I got horrendously sick, so I have a good excuse. Anyway, here it is, with more to follow. The song is "The Poor Wee Ditching Boy" by Richard Thompson, and it's definitely worth a listen.


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